


This is All Real

by maddieaddam



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Dissociation, Dream Within A Dream (Within a Dream), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rare Pairings, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, memory confusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 21:26:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8862700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maddieaddam/pseuds/maddieaddam
Summary: Reality becomes hard to piece together for Eugene Roe in the time between V-E Day and the true end of the war, but whether he's awake or asleep (or unsure which), he always appreciates the company of his fellow medic.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction inspired by, and intended only to represent, the roles in the HBO miniseries Band of Brothers as played by the actors. No disrespect is meant to the real men of Easy Company. 
> 
> I honestly don't know with this one. When you watch Bastogne foxhole cuddling too many times, it can do things to your brain. Title and quote are from This is All Real by Chris Thile.

_You won't wake up, you're not dreaming - this is all real_  
_We've been playing like we'd made sense of such a raw deal_  
_Why'd you listen? What do we know? It only looks like we have something you don't_

_I lost my faith in a sweet illusion where every wound heals_  
_If you're still there, let me tell you: this is all real._

__

While Eugene Roe certainly struggles with his sleep once the war in Europe ends, throwing him and so many of the other men into a state of suspended animation between V-E Day and deployment to the Pacific, he doesn’t exactly consider himself a sufferer of nightmares. 

At least, he doesn’t think that they’re nightmares in the classic sense. There’s no moment when he wakes up in a cold sweat, blankets clutched around his neck, screaming or grappling for safety from a threat that’s already slipping from his memory; some of the images within them are certainly disturbing enough to cause that sort of reaction, but he’s not given the gift of such a strong division between sleeping and waking. Or, to put things more honestly, reality and subconscious fiction. 

He wakes. The space around him is actually too familiar to be accurate – this is his childhood room, not the small but adequate space cleared for himself and fellow medic Ralph Spina in an Austrian hotel room. In fact, there are two others in this room, his younger brother on the bunk beneath him and his elder brother against the opposite wall in a bed of his own. Even the light spilling through their window is familiar, splintered by the dancing shadows of tree branches, murky with dust motes and humidity thick enough to create a near-palpable haze. 

When he swings his legs out of his bed and his feet hit the floor, he pauses in confusion, trying to sort out why he’d be on the bottom bunk. The floor doesn’t feel right against the soles of his feet, either, more like the thick, sucking bottom of a swamp; he tries to pull his left foot out, nose wrinkling at the sensation, but it pulls back rather than releasing him. 

It doesn’t stop pulling. He’s already disappeared into his floor to the ankles. His heart starting to race, he opens his mouth to scream, but all that comes out is the rapid _ratatatatatat_ of machine gun fire. As though in response to his strange, inhuman cry, voices rise up from the floor and spill from the walls and pour through the window - _Medic! We need a medic! Doc, get over here!_ \- but not only can he not move, he’s still sinking. 

His older brother sits up in bed, turns to look at him: half his face is blasted and scorched to pieces, like Jackson’s. His younger brother grabs him by the wrist and yanks him around far enough to make eye contact, and now Eugene can see that he’s got a neck wound showering his shoulder with blood, like Blithe. 

He wakes again, but slowly, fumbling the veil of sleep away from his eyes and mind and squinting into the faint light of consciousness. This is the right room… isn’t it? It’s so dark that he can’t quite make out the colors of the walls, and the other distinguishing features like artwork and furniture are no more than fainter shadows in a room of deep shadows. At the very least, he is able to set his feet on solid ground and cross the room this time, but he never runs into any physical barrier where Spina’s bed should be.

 _Spina? Ralph?_ He’s not sure why, but something gives him the impression that he’s only hearing his voice in his own mind, even though he can feel his lips and throat moving. All he can think to do is fumble his way to where the light switch should be, which proves easier than he would’ve expected because there don’t seem to be any physical barriers in the room at all. 

It’s also unsettlingly silent, too still even for a near-empty room in the dead of night. Eugene concentrates hard on his sense of hearing, reaching out for any sort of sound at all, and at last he becomes aware of a faint whistle from above his head. 

He knows that whistle.

No, no, _no_ – so many of the men are bunked in this hotel, and he can’t save any of them if he can’t get out of this room! 

Suddenly he feels everything around him shake, which is a very unique experience when he doesn’t have any real sense of solid matter in the space other than the ground beneath his feet. All around him, he can hear the roar of explosions and crackle of resulting flames, and then screams that layer one over the other over the other like instruments in an orchestra as a symphony reaches its crescendo. Even when they must number in the hundreds, he’s able to pick out every single, individual voice: that one is Liebgott, that one is Nixon, that one is Talbert, and _that_ one is Babe Heffron screaming his name.

 _Gene! Gene!! Where are you? Save me, Gene! You can't just let me die!_

He can’t see a thing, but he can hear it all.

He wakes again, so slow it feels sluggish, like trying to stumble back to wakefulness before you’ve realized that you caught sick overnight. He’s cold, too, so that may not be far off the mark; while temperatures in Austria aren’t exactly balmy for someone born and raised in Louisiana, they’re never uncomfortable. This chill reminds him of…

… Bastogne. It reminds him of Bastogne. 

With that realization, he becomes aware of other things, like the fact that he’s lying on a bed of frozen dirt rather than a mattress and his only bedding is a single, thin blanket. When he breathes in, the air stings his lungs and his nose starts to run before he’s even exhaled, starting up a familiar sting around the chapped edges of his nostrils. Beyond those sharp, keen sensations, the cold and struggle to breathe, everything is a haze of dull ache that makes it hard to tell one body part from another. 

He stumbles to his feet, immediately bracing himself to run in case it proves necessary – he never spent more than a minute or two at a time _not_ similarly braced when they were in Bastogne and Bois Jacques. The fog that swathed the forest for so long, blocking them off from all forms of air support and stranding them in that nightmarish landscape, is far thicker even than Eugene remembers from their time there, but he’s not quite able to piece that thought together in such a logical way because these surroundings feel like a perfectly logical place for him to be and as though they look just as they should. It’s that dream confidence that will tell a person a house they’ve never seen before is their family home and leave them no choice but to believe.

His feet crunch in the snow as he starts to explore, arms in front of him to ensure he doesn’t walk into any tree trunks, but the sound isn’t quite right. That much he can tell for certain, even though he never saw a trace of snow until he arrived in Europe. Confused, he looks down and finds that the fog is too thick to see his feet, so he sits cross-legged in order to pull one foot closer to his face.

It’s bare, whitish-blue across the sole and creeping up the heel, and riddled with trench foot. 

He wakes much more quickly this time, sitting up comfortably in bed and glancing around to find that he’s exactly where he should be. He can even hear Spina’s snoring from the opposite side of the room, a grating constant that suddenly feels more welcome than a long hug from a loved one after a day away from home, because this must be it. He must finally be awake, well and properly awake. 

It’s hard to feel settled in that conclusion after already waking so many times, though. At any moment, something could surprise him into realizing that this place isn’t quite right either, or he could be plunged into a deeper layer of dreaming that renders him unable to question the veracity of anything. So how can he check? What are the usual signs?

The floor: he settles his feet, presses downward with his heels, and the floor holds. When he stands, his body seems to hold the right amount of mass, take up the right amount of space; he’s not showing any signs of floating or sinking. His vision is clear, the level of light good enough for him to make out the details of the room. He can walk, open and close his hands, turn his head. 

“Hello?” His voice comes out sounding perfectly normal. So far, so very, very good.

With slow, cautious steps, he makes his way across the room to wake Spina. This isn’t a luxury he’s allowed himself before, but tonight has been worse than usual, so much that he can feel the first hot scorch of panic rising in the back of his throat. Better to check with Spina in a calm, rational way and then let them both go back to sleep than wake him screaming if things get any worse. 

He bends over the round lump of Spina’s sleeping form beneath the blankets, which he’s got tugged right over his head, and gives him a light shake. “Spina?” He whispers, then repeats a bit louder: “Ralph, sorry to bother you, but -”

No, something’s wrong. Not only has he shown no sign of responding to Eugene’s voice, not even a grunt or sigh, but his upper body feels too slack when Eugene shakes it again: heavy but rubbery, all dead weight. 

“Spina!” Eugene shakes him violently this time, then, when he still doesn’t respond, gives him a single hard shove to flip him onto his back.

The person in this bed might actually be Spina, but then, it might be anyone. It’s only just recognizable as human: severe shrapnel damage, Eugene thinks with clinical detachment, if they’ve been shredded this thoroughly without actually losing any limbs. Maybe close vicinity to a frag grenade. Then he shoves a fist into his mouth to force down a scream about to break free from his throat, but his voice echoes through the room anyway, so loud that he can feel the vibration of his eardrums and then the pop as they burst.

He wakes so suddenly that his lungs are overfull, caught between the in and out breaths of a terrified gasp. Pressing an unsteady hand to his face, he lets the breath out and stays perfectly still for the moment, not yet ready to explore his surroundings and determine if this is real or just another layer of near-consciousness. 

“Please,” he whispers into the cold, sweaty palm pressed against his lips. “Please, please, please, _please_ …”

“Gene?” A low, muzzy voice, thick with sleep, speaks up from across the room, and Eugene hears the bedding shift with crystal clarity. “That you, Gene? You okay?”

Spina. Unless this is another dream-trick, Spina hears him. They’re both present in a real room and able to communicate with one another.

“Spina,” Eugene tries to say but ends up croaking instead. He struggles his way to sitting upright, still trying to catch his breath, and the sight of Spina’s large, solid silhouette crossing the room to check on him is so clear and sharp that he could cry with relief. 

It pulls his memory back quite suddenly, although not so completely that it could be a sign of being trapped mid-dream, to the occasional night in Bastogne when he simply grew too cold to remain alone in his shallow foxhole. As much as he wanted to be more available than even a covered foxhole would allow, since it could muffle the sound of a distant call, he could also feel when the numbness in his limbs was reaching dangerous levels or the burn in his lungs might lead to something more debilitating than he could afford; on those nights, he would go to find Spina (and Babe Heffron at times, once they stumbled their way into proper friendship) and wrap tight around his sleeping form. 

He would certainly have to be pressed by something very compelling, but if someone _were_ able to press him that far, he would admit that he’d enjoyed those nights. He’d never slept in his parents’ bed as a young child, nor even with any of his siblings since they always had bunk beds rather than one massive bed; having another person to hold was not only warm in a life-saving way, but also more comforting than he could’ve imagined. Often, he woke up with his face tucked into Spina’s neck and Spina’s cheek resting on the crown of his head, a safe and sanctioned sort of intimacy in this world where he could hardly bring himself to attempt friendly connections with any of the men in his company.

Spina was solid but soft, so warm Eugene could hardly believe a human body could produce that much heat in sub-zero temperatures, and endlessly comforting. Eugene never felt as safe as he did in the first seconds after waking up in Spina’s hold, before he remembered where he was and what he needed to do.

Sneaking in while Spina slept and slipping away before he awoke meant that Eugene never knew what he thought of the arrangement, or if he even remembered or knew. He certainly never spoke of it to Eugene, and the rapport between them never changed.

“Hey, _Gene._ ” The bed shifts on one side, and Spina settles beside Eugene’s huddled form, enough concerned impatience in his voice to suggest that he’s been trying to reach Eugene for a while. “What’s goin’ on, bad dream? I’ve never seen you look so spooked.”

Spina’s eyes are dark, shiny as obsidian glass, and there’s a warmth in them that never really fades. He’s got a five o’clock shadow that never really fades either, not for more than a few hours after he shaves, and that only happens when he can be bothered. Eugene doesn’t think he’s the sort of man who would be called handsome, but he’s always liked the way Spina looks, and that warmth in his eyes has already begun to soothe Eugene’s racing heartbeat. 

“Spina, you’re – we’re both _here_ , right?” The question probably makes Eugene sound like a madman, but he can’t find any sensible way to ask, and he needs to know before some horrible rift in reality proves that they’re not. He reaches out and wraps a hand around Spina’s forearm, relieved by the amount of sensation in his hand, the way Spina’s skin sinks under his fingertips but doesn’t melt or vanish. “I’m awake. It’s over, I’m awake, I’m here…”

His mouth twisting uneasily, Spina just reaches out and wraps an arm around Eugene’s shoulders to pull him in close, rubbing a comforting hand up and down his side. “Yeah, Doc, you’re here. Everybody’s here that was here yesterday. Feels fuckin’ good to finally be able to say that, don’t it?”

Eugene didn’t actually fear that anyone had died, but he doesn’t bother to clarify. He just settles himself more comfortably against Spina’s side, head resting on his shoulder, which causes the other medic to take in a slightly unsteady breath and glance down with – what sort of expression? Eugene can’t see, of course, but he thinks maybe Spina never did know how he used to share his body heat and soothing presence in Bastogne. 

Or maybe those were dreams wrapped in dreams, ones that felt so real and pleasant that he held onto them as truth. He didn’t have very much that he could call pleasant in Bastogne, so why not? He finds himself wondering about more and more of his war memories lately, both because some of his dream layers feel so real and because he’s not sure how long he’s had these sorts of dreams: it might only have been since the war screamed to a halt, which first seemed to be true, or he might simply have been too exhausted and busy to question every memory that appeared in his head at that time.

“You’re real,” he says in a shaky whisper, because he knows that much: whether or not Spina is here at this very moment, he’s been an anchor ever since he arrived, steadfast and dependable while Eugene rode wind currents to maintain his frenetic level of activity and simply crossed his fingers that he wouldn’t be swept away.

“Gene…” Spina pulls back to look at him more closely, worry etched into his features. “You – need to – I dunno, talk? I gotta be honest, you don’t sound too great right now.”

“I’m alright,” Eugene assures him, because every second that passes in complete normalcy reassures him and lets him trust his surroundings a little more. Already his voice is stronger, and he’s able to sit up and offer Spina a sheepish smile; he’s not sure if he just imagines it, but Spina’s arm seems to tighten around his shoulder for just a second before he finally releases his hold. 

“Alright. But if you –”

“- can you stay?”

Even though their voices overlap, they hear one another clearly, and Spina huffs out a charmingly self-effacing laugh at Eugene’s request. “Yeah, sure. Can’t do much, but being here’s somethin’ I can do. Like in Bastogne.”

 _He remembers_. It was real. And his cheeks flush so deeply that Eugene feels his warm in response.

“I never knew why you didn’t… talk to me more, y’know? I could tell it was gettin’ to you, all the shit that happened there, and we weren’t buddies or anything but I figured maybe I had some idea… maybe better than the other guys, at least…” Spina’s words slowly peter out, until he can’t seem to manage more than another laugh, but he’s already said enough to make Eugene’s stomach sink with guilt. 

He kept to himself during that entire experience so that others wouldn’t need to worry about him; had he only ended up worrying them more?

Rather than answer, Eugene finds himself clapping a hand over his mouth to shield a massive yawn, and Spina chuckles once more. “Never mind all that,” he murmurs, standing up and tilting his head down at Eugene, “just get comfortable again and leave enough room for me, if you got that much.”

“There’ll be enough room,” Eugene assures him quietly, but with the particular firmness in his voice that can clear a crowded space even if he whispers. He shuffles backward toward the wall and rolls onto his side, facing outward, and Spina climbs into the rather narrow bed with a confused look.

“How we gonna…?” He’s still sitting up, obviously trying to figure out how to situate himself so that it won’t be uncomfortable for either of them; they were _always_ half sitting up in Bastogne, which makes this entirely new territory.

Eugene thinks about what he’ll want to see if he wakes up from another multi-layered dream and needs immediate confirmation that he's truly awoken, what will be more comforting: “Facin’ me,” he murmurs at last, and Spina looks starkly embarrassed for a moment but does as Eugene’s asked. When Eugene curls around him, head tucked under his chin and arm around his waist, he’s able to feel for the first time that Spina’s still not quite breathing steadily. 

His heart matches the shivery pace of Spina’s breaths after a few seconds, the beats fast and steady but the whole thing seeming to vibrate behind his ribcage like a hummingbird’s wings. He wonders why Spina’s so nervous without wondering why he is himself. He imagines soothing Spina somehow, maybe stroking his brow with a tender touch like Renée used to do with the wounded men in Bastogne.

He imagines kissing Spina, which seems like a non sequitur, but that doesn’t make the thought entirely unpleasant. 

Before he can do anything he’s imagined, he drifts into a dreamless sleep.


End file.
